


Give as Good as You Get

by CrystalTheReaper



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Sex, Hysterectomy, Multi, Needles, Respawn sickness, Romance Buildup, Suicide to achieve respawn, Surgery, alcohol mention, blood being drawn, smoking mention, syringes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalTheReaper/pseuds/CrystalTheReaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A multiple chapter fic of Insert Reader as they interact with the mercs and develop a polygamous relationship with Medic and Heavy.  The Reader is physically female, but they will be referred to with male pronouns by the mercs as the Reader attempts keep their gender identity hidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone unfamiliar with insert Reader fan fiction, it is written in second person so you can place yourself in the story. Y/N = your name. When you see the Y/N symbol, read it as your name or a name you have chosen for yourself.  
> Special thanks to yuriheavy for your help editing. Sorry I so long to give you credit, I'm a butt.

You have lead people to assume you are male.  You bind your torso with a confined, yet comfortable fabric that hugs your bosom.  The outline of your chest is non-existent through your garbs.  You are accustomed to attire that downplays your curves and gives you a more masculine appearance.  Your new uniform meets this criteria.  

“Nothing major...”  Miss Pauling briefs you on the details of the job.  “Just a lot of daily combat situations.  I’m sure you’re used to that by now.”

She pauses to let her words sink in.  The vehicle speeds alongside a variety of cacti, some dry grass, and a seemingly uncountable number of boulders.

“The contract you signed already explained this, but I feel a need to elaborate.  Death isn’t permanent here.  When you die, you will be sent back to respawn.”

Miss Pauling has your full attention.  You tear your eyes from your open car window and bore your gaze into her reflection in the driver’s mirror. You tilt your head to the side and ask her how it works.

“To be honest, I don’t understand it.  You can ask Engineer after you settle in.  He probably knows.”  She drums her fingers on the steering wheel and gives you a quick smile through the mirror to reassure you before returning her focus to the road.  

You have been driving for what feels like hours.  The air conditioning is broken and the hot desert wind is a poor substitute for the luxury of air conditioning that you've grown accustomed to in modern vehicles.  The heat leaves your mouth dry and your forehead damp.  Water mirages on the pavement ahead are as abundant as the sun’s unforgiving rays.

“Keep in mind, even if death isn’t permanent here, try not to die.”  

You reach to your right and unscrew the lid off one of the water bottles that have been provided for you.  The paper label is damp with perspiration.  You take a sip.  The heat has affected you more than you realized because the warm water is refreshing.

“I’m told respawn can be… uncomfortable.”  There are hints of amusement in Miss Pauling’s voice.  She continues, “Your mission is to capture the enemy’s intelligence.  However, the other team has the exact same objective.  Do you understand that you will be facing an opposing team that closely resembles your own?”

You nod. You do not understand the reasoning behind this.  You are expected to fight an endless war where no one remains dead.  You have agreed to do so because the payment is desirable.

The rest of the drive is dominated with descriptions of your future co-workers.  Miss Pauling attempts to answer your questions matter-o-factly, while removing her opinion from the fray.  It quickly becomes apparent she holds professional admiration for some and approbation for others.  If she disapproves of the way any of them behave, it only shows when her description of their animated personalities becomes lacking.

The two-lane asphalt is desolate of other vehicles.  Miss Pauling accelerates at least ten miles above the speed limit as she speaks.  She only slows down when you pass through a sizeable mining town.  A discolored population sign informs you that the community houses no more than two-thousand.  Telephone poles trail alongside the left side of the road even after the town becomes a fading reflection in the driver’s side mirror.   

It takes half-an-hour before Miss Pauling declares you’ve arrived at your destination.  She takes a sharp left over a pop-up cactus display that guards an entrance in the canyon cliffs.  Your route in is quickly veiled behind a conspicuous camouflage tarp.  The whole environment reminds you of the Roadrunner and Wile E Coyote cartoon.

Miss Pauling parks just outside of a silver garage door connected to a towering white structure.  The smoke stacks burning away on top of the roofs, accompanied by the wide label RED Bread on the sides of the building, give the base an akin appearance of a manufacturing plant.

“Your stuff is in the trunk,” Miss Pauling reminds you.

She pulls the keys from the ignition and exits the vehicle.  You find the trunk to be unlocked when you retrieve your personal artifacts.  Your duffle bag holds a few necessities; a tooth brush, tooth paste, a few handguns, a knife collection, and some reading material.  You sling the strap over your shoulder.

The silver door opens seemingly on its own.  Engineer is waiting on the other side in a garage generous enough in size that it could accommodate small plane.  He removes his hand from the garage opener.  You recognize him instantly from Miss Pauling’s verbal portrayal.  The goggles are a dead give-away.  You expected him to be taller.

“Hello there, I’m Engineer.” he greets as you approach.  You meet him in the cool shadows of the garage.  He extends a gloved hand to shake.  

“Nice to meet you, I’m Y/N.” you introduce yourself.  You accept his hand.  To your surprise, your grasp does not meet the sensation of cushiony flesh beneath the yellow glove.  The clothing is full with a hard metal skeleton of a hand.  The prosthetic has by no means lost its ability to clasp things.  You gauge that Engineer could break the bones in your fingers by clutching too tightly, but his grip remains as firm and polite as is expected of someone who finds shaking hands with strangers to be second nature.

You hear the trunk shut from behind.  Engineer nods in approval and relinquishes his grasp.  He turns his attention to Miss Pauling as she enters the garage.  He removes his hard hat and holds it in front of his torso with both hands.

“Miss, I feel it is my duty to inform you we undertook a mission in your absence, despite your request for us to otherwise refrain from such said activities.  We got wind of the transportation of the intelligence and we took it upon ourselves to intercept it.”  As he speaks, he fiddles with his hat anxiously.  “I also feel the need to add that this particular dim-witted scheme was not of my own design.”

Miss Pauling’s eyes widen.  Her back straightens and her shoulders become tense.

“Okay, we can take care of this.  Whatever happened, we can fix this.  I just have to figure out if there were any witnesses and possibly pay off the cops… no harm done.  Nothing that can’t be fixed.”  She contains her panic through planning.  “Did anyone get arrested?”

“Nothing as dissatisfactory at that, Ma’am.  While you were otherwise preoccupied in retrieving our newfound associate over here, we successfully eradicated the BLU and seized the intelligence.  Scout delivered it to the war room about thirty minutes ago.”

Miss Pauling visibly relaxes.  A sigh of relief escapes her.

“Excellent.”  She grins victoriously.  “That just leaves a few loose ends to tie up.  I’ll take Y/N to their room and work on clean up.”

Engineer returns his hardhat to his head.

“Thought you’d like to know.”

He strays away towards the table in the middle of the room.  Miss Pauling makes her way towards the stairs.  You take that as your cue to follow.

“Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”  Engineer adds before you disappear from the room.  

Miss Pauling walk is brisk and she is easily in lead.  She has a natural bounce in her step that has been amplified by her need to complete her task.  Together you traverse a maze of hallways.  A dark beige stripe runs vertically through the white walls, with a significantly smaller red line drawn underneath it.  Bullet holes and scratches tell you that these halls have seen combat.  Cameras are stationed every few feet and you take note of the blind spots.  There are signs posted around every curve with directions to vital areas of the base.  You doubt you will ever lose your way.   

The door to your quarters is painted to look like wood.  It creaks when you open it.  The room is decorated with basic furniture such as a bed, a desk without a chair, a dresser, and a few empty bookshelves.  

“This room has never been used.  This facility is meant to hold a lot more people than it actually does, but that means you will have plenty of room to move around,” explains Miss Pauling.

You advance inside, stepping on unsweetened coffee colored carpet floors that match the wood panel walls.  The room stinks of the thick dust it is caked in. You hungirly eye the untouched bookshelves with the full intention of stocking them.  You value a well written book and have a tendency to hoard literature.  You are of the predisposition to buy novels on a whim, even if you are aware you will fall short of the task of actually reading the material.

“You can find blankets in the linen closet.  Before I forget, let me give you my emergency number.” says Miss Pauling, reaching into her purse for a pen and paper pad.  You spot a handgun tucked beside a pack of gum.  She quickly scribbles down a phone number and hands it to you.

“I have to go,”  She says as a means of goodbye before disappearing out the door.  The hallway fills with the dimming sound of heels clicking against linoleum flooring.

You remove your bag from your shoulder and set it on the bed.  You keep an unarmed piece tucked to your back under your belt and a knife strapped to you lower leg.  You turn on the ceiling fan and approach the four-pane window.  You pull the curtains aside, revealing a decent vantage point the backyard warzone.  There is a railroad bridge hanging over the valley and you can just barely make out the BLU base behind a rocky horizon.  The window has a lock on the inside to keep out wall climbing intruders.  It is rusted and it takes a great deal of energy to unlatch it.  A warm breeze hits you when you manage to shimmy the glass upwards.  

You step back to admire your work, before collapsing lazily onto the naked bed.  Your duffle bag lightly bounces from the sudden weight shift.  Your unarmed piece digs into your back.  You are wearied from travel.  Your muscles ache for proper exercise.  Your bladder joins in on the physical complaints being filed against you by your body.

You leave your room and wander the halls.  It becomes clear you have miscalculated how simple it is to become disoriented in the network of passages.  You are aware that the cameras twist to follow your footsteps.  When Miss Pauling guided you, they remained stationary.  Now the bulky black surveillance machines monitor your ever growing discombobulation.  You pay them no visible attention.

You are about to give up hope when you stumble into a lounge area.  A large number of your teammates are present and they are caught off guard by the sight of you.  The air goes silent.  

The room is moderately lit.  There’s a white fridge, a Payload Pinball machine, an electronic Ciggy Stop cigarette vendor, and a television strapped to the top of a white rolling cart.  The mercs sit in orange plastic chairs at a round poker table.  Ash drops from the end of Soldier’s cigar.

You blink.  The sound of conversations elevates back to a natural volume.  There are sandwiches, chips, and beer littered along the table.  There is a poker match in progress.  Demoman and Soldier shoot penetrating glares at each other, a picture of competitive friendship.  Sniper appears to be deeply concentrated on his cards and has the largest stack of accumulated chips.  

Heavy dozes off beside Medic, only opening his eyes to check the progress of the game when the other’s jeers become too distracting.  Medic holds his cards with one hand and fills out paperwork with the other.  He glances up at you and you turn to leave.

“Yoo hoo!  New guy!”  Medic calls from the farthest seat from you.  He discards his cards without a second thought and hastily scoops up his scattered paperwork.  He springs from his chair to chase after you.  You shift your footing to face him.

“Y/N, yes?”  He smiles warmly.  You give an affirmative nod. “Hello!  I am Medic.  I vill do your physical examination.”

His smile grows wider.  He is taller than you and you have to tilt your head upwards to make eye contact.  Miss Pauling narrated him as the doctor of the team.  He has made advancements in medicine ahead of his time, but has made no attempt to share them for the benefit of society.  He has a propensity for violence and a short temper, but is generally polite to his fellow teammates.  You were warned to stay clear of his radar if you wished to avoid becoming a lab rat.

“Examination?”  You repeat.

“It is just a standard procedure.  Nothing to vorry about.”  He waves a hand dismissively before adding, “I need to draw your blood as vell.”

“Another time.  I have to go.”  

You slowly back away.

“It vill only take a moment,”  He promises.

“I need to use the bathroom,”  You admit.  He blinks.

“One second!”  

He scrambles back to his seat and returns with a white doctor bag that has a blood red cross stitched to the side.  Some papers fall to the floor as he rummages through it.  You bend down to gather them for him.  You rise, offering the papers to him, finding that he is extending his arm to give you a plastic medical cup with a screw on lid.

“Drug testing is mandatory,”  He adds.

Your mouth opens ajar.  After an awkward moment of silence, you press your lips tightly together and accept the container.   

“The lavatory is around the corner, down the hall, to the right,”  He answers your unspoken question.

You thank him and give the room one last look-over before departing.   You put the medical cup in your jacket pocket and follow Medic’s directions.  You arrive at your destination to discover there are two different restrooms, one marked by a bald stick man and another nearly identical stick man who's wearing a hat.  You choose the bathroom that is the cleanest.


	2. Chapter 2

Several days pass as you familiarize yourself with the compound and become acquainted with your teammates.  Scout challenges your body count before bragging of his own.  Specifically that it is too large to count.  Soldier demands to know if you’ve seen real war and proceeds to ramble on with exotic war stories before you can respond.  He weaves his nostalgic soaked tales and it does not take long before you doubt their authenticity.  Spy inquires if you are a long range or short range fighter.  He presents a series of question to attempt to gauge your strengths and limits.

There is an unspoken concern of how your essence will effect the scheme of the battlefield.  The mercs are competent in the familiarity of their roles.  Their strategies are routine and predictable.  You are expected to bring a new flavor to an equable recipe of war that they have been consuming for years and they are unsure if they will like the taste.  

Medic has informed you numerous times you will not be cleared for combat until you complete the standard physical examination.  He approaches you in the mess hall the day you are assigned to spectate.

“Failure to complete a physical examination by the end of the veek vill result in your resignation.”  He broaches the subject without an introduction or greeting.  He has rapidly grown less polite with each encounter and his stern expression tells you he is reaching the limit of his patience.  You look up from the book you are reading.  He towers over your seating, and you have to crane your neck to look at his face.  His silver blue eyes pierce into your own.  You finish chewing your breakfast before speaking.

“That doesn’t give me much time.”

You set the book face down on the table beside your half eaten cereal.  It is the waking hours.  The only people you’ve seen up this early other than Medic is Sniper and Soldier, but you get the feeling Spy is lurking about.  Medic is dressed in his casual garments, which consists of a beige vest over a white button-up shirt and liver colored trousers.  He wears a cherry dyed tie.  Upon reflection, you have never seen him without one.

“It vill only take a couple of hours,” counters Medic.  His medical bag slacks at his side.  Your response is delayed by mental calculations.  There is a strong likelihood your sex will be discovered during the physical examination.  You weigh the idea of your secret being discovered against the likelihood of being fired.

“Soon,” you promise.  He gives a tisk of frustration.  

“Now.” he demands.  

“No, I’m eating breakfast.”  Your cereal is soggy.  It is likely you will throw it out once he leaves the room.

“After breakfast zhen.”

“I can’t.  I’m spectating today.  Tomorrow.”  He seems satisfied with that answer.

“Tomorrow zhen.  But no later.”  He rubs his chin thoughtfully.  He does not leave.  He seems to be in deep thought and continues to tug at his clean shave.  You resist the urge to pick up your book and resume reading.  You wait patiently for him to speak.

“Before you can spectate, I must draw your blood.”  His eyes return to yours and he lowers his hand.

“Why?”

“Ve must calibrate the respawn machinery to conform to your DNA to escape the inevitability of death.”  He grins as he sets his medical bag on the table and withdraws a syringe with an excessive needle.  

“I’m still eating.”

“I’ll vait.”  He positions the syringe as far from your meal as possible, followed by an unlabeled bottle of disinfectant and cotton swabs.  He resorts to standing idly beside you.  After a moment, you sigh and push your bowl off to the side.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Clear your arm,” requests Medic.  Reluctantly, you undo your jacket.  You set it on the back of your chair.  You roll up your sleeves and uncover your arm.  Medic produces a crimson tourniquet from his bag.  He reaches for your right arm and straightens the limb.  

“Zhis shouldn’t hurt… too much.”  He does not bother to disguise the delight in his voice.  He ties the compressing device above the crook of your elbow.  His warm index finger palpates the flesh in search of your vein.  He is very close to you.  He must have shaved recently because the fragrance of aftershave hangs heavily in the air.  He is not wearing gloves and his naked fingers cause goosebumps to prickle across your skin.

Medic uses one hand to firmly keep your arm still while he opens the bottle of disinfectant with his other.  The scent is overwhelming and stings your nostrils.  He takes a cotton swab and holds it over the open lid of the bottle with his thumb.  He turns the bottle upside down on top of the swab to briefly douse it.  

The disinfectant is cold against your skin.  The hair on the back of your neck stands on end.  Medic makes wide circular motions, avoiding spots he already cleansed as he thoroughly sanitizes the area.  He discards the cotton swab on the table and lets your arm air dry.  

Events have been pleasant up to this point, you have nearly forgotten the purpose for his preparations.  He uncaps the syringe.  You watch in fascination as he positions the needle carefully.  He slides the needle into your body without warning.  It pinches slightly, but you are not in pain.  You remember to breathe.  You do not know when you started holding your breath.

Blood streams into the syringe.  After a short time, Medic removes the tourniquet.  The blood flow increases and the tube quickly fills.  He readies a cotton swab.  He presses it against the needle to stop the bleeding when he extracts the syringe.

“Apply pressure to zhat,” He orders and guides your free hand to the swab.

He restores the cap to the needle and slides the appropriated blood into his pants pocket.  He removes your fingers and gives the wound a brief look-over.  He uses the tape to secure the cotton swab before returning his items to his medical bag.

“Danke!” he declares his completion of the task.

The whole ordeal could not have lasted more than a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.  He sweeps up the rest of the cotton swabs and wanders off to find the nearest trash can to dispose of them.  You bend your arm cautiously.  The tape wrinkles, but the makeshift bandage remains.  

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

You look forward to spectating.  You harbor no illusions that you will be allowed to join the conflict today, but you intend to vicariously savor the other merc’s victories.  As it turns out, spectating involves sitting behind a bunch of black and white camera screens.  The lack of color means you have difficulty differentiating between the RED and BLU mercs.  

You are not ill-informed.  The Administrator barks updates through the stereo above your head.  You are accustomed to her voice.  For all the battles that have taken place since your arrival, her disparagement has roared through every speaker in the base.

The working strategy of both teams is to fortify the routes to their bases, long before the enemy has neared the intelligence.  The plan is successful for most the morning.  Your allied Spy manages to sap a defending sentry, allowing RED Scout to break through to the other side of the canyon.  He dodges incoming rockets and bounces just out of BLU Sniper’s line of targeting.  The cameras only monitor your territory.  You lose sight of him as he ventures into the BLU’s identical base.  

You shift camera feeds.  A Pyro in your base catches your attention.  They jog towards the room sheltering the intelligence.  You investigate the control panel, pursuing the concept of a panic button.  There’s a telephone built into the panel, but you do not know how to operate it to warn the others.  You exit your chair and get on your knees, searching the underside of the desk.

You surface to find Pyro has vanished from view.  It takes several alternations of the camera feed before you find the intelligence room.  You bypass it on the first go and spam the buttons of the keyboard until it appears again.

The guarding sentry ignores Pyro, never breaking its rhythmic head swivels.  You watch with intrigue as Pyro lifts their flamethrower and begins to assault the air with fire.  They spin on their heels, engulfing the room in a man-made inferno.  No spies catch fire and Pyro seems satisfied with the result.  They sprint back through the base towards the exterior battlefield.

You relax.  Your eyes stray from the monitors and explore the control panel.  All of the switches are unlabeled.  You desire a method of communication with your teammates, to assist them as an extra pair of eyes.  There is a red button in the middle of the desk and you contemplate pushing it.  The Administrator announces the capture of the enemy intelligence.  You glance up at the intelligence room to observe Scout is in mid victory dance.

You shift camera feeds for a time, studying your teammates and their styles of combat.  You spend longer than necessary monitoring Medic.  He exerts the majority of his efforts healing his allies with his hefty Medi Gun.  Heavy is on the receiving end of most of his cures, but at this moment he is not to be seen.  He disappeared from view after being taken down by BLU Sniper and is presumably in the immediate vicinity of respawn.

You do not search for him.  The RED Medic has your undivided attention.  He attempts to mend Pyro, but they take an unhealthy dose of bullets from a scattergun and are sent back to respawn.  Medic is left isolated in the heat of combat.  He becomes widely vulnerable to attacks, but without the distraction of healing his meat shields, Medic demonstrates that he is more than capable of unleashing his share of carnage and destruction.  

The enemy Scout makes the mistake of drawing too close.  He raises his bat to smash in Medic’s cranium, but his endeavor is thwarted when a bone saw slashes through his abdomen.  Medic shreds into his flesh and bone, his eyes expanding with bloodlust and his lips curling into a mad grin.  He continues hacking into the BLU Scout’s body long after the Scout has departed from the living.  Blood sprays his upper torso and face as he relishes the way the meat slices beneath his gloved fingers.

Medic ceases to butcher the corpse when he hears Heavy’s voice.  Heavy jogs over to him, one hand cupped over his mouth as he calls out to his friend and healer.  Medic regains his composure and cleans the blood from his glasses by wiping the lenses on a clean patch of his coat.  He equips the Medigun and together they overtake the center of the battlefield.  

A level-three Sentry gun sits on top of a cliff ledge, blocking access to enemy territory.  Heavy and Medic take shelter behind the pillars underneath the railroad bridge.  Every few seconds, Heavy steps out from his refuge to rain machine gun bullets on the opposing sentry.  The sentry returns fire.  

Medic crouches and keeps his unfaltering healing ray trained on his teammate.  It preserves Heavy from sudden death when on the offense and restores him to his full potential when he withdraws.  Their strategy steadily wears the sentry down faster than the enemy Engineer can repair it.

In the blink of an eye, your allied Sniper’s bullet slices through the air.  The rival Engineer’s body ragdolls off the cliff.  Heavy annihilates the remains of the sentry and Medic shadows him as they charge towards the BLU base.  They pause in the recess of a tool shed to make an expeditious restock of ammunition.  

RED Sniper’s dot accompanies them as they resume their expedition into the opponent's territory.  He picks off potential adversaries on the road ahead.  It allots Heavy the convenience of conserving his newly stocked ammo.  Scoping onwards, Sniper catches sight of his BLU twin in a lofty watchtower.  The opponent peaks his head over his wood boarded hideaway and risks exposure in the pursuit of a clear vantage point.  RED Sniper aligns a headshot and pulls the trigger.

You lose visual of Medic and Heavy as they disappear into the enemy compound.  You alternate camera feeds until you are monitoring respawn, calculating that either your teammates will perish or the Administrator will advertise the capture of the intelligence.  Respawn is a milky shaded shelter located a short distance from the main battlements exit of your base.  In your contract, the rules clearly stated many times that entering the enemy’s respawn is strictly forbidden.  You are aware that the BLU mercs operate under a duplicate set of guidelines.  Regardless, RED Engineer has positioned a level-two sentry on top of the shelter.

Your head comes to rest in your palms as you wait for Medic to respawn.  The door opens.  You lift your head.  Demonman emerges.  Your chin sinks back into your hands.  He takes a swig of Scrumpy and sprints out of frame.  Only now does it become apparent how often your teammates actually die.  A RED merc runs through the door every few minutes like clock work.  To pass the time, you mentally sum the amount of times each person dies and compare their death tolls.

Heavy exits respawn.  You sit upright, attentively minding the screen.  Both Heavy and you linger in wait for Medic, but minutes pass and he does not emerge.  Heavy loses patience and drifts back to the battlefield.  You are left to supervise respawn alone.  Time moves at a lethargic pace.  You nearly give up the notion of sighting Medic when you spot smoke in the corner of your eye.

BLU Spy develops from the vapors.  His actions are brisk and methodical.  He exposes his cigarette case for a fraction of a second.  You have yet to blink before he has taken the form of RED Heavy.  He duplicates Heavy’s movements perfectly down to his deep, steady breathing.  If you had not observed the transformation with your own eyes, you would not considering doubting his authenticity.

The gates of respawn slide open and Medic appears.  The cloaked Spy gives him a reassuring nod and Medic focuses his Medi Gun on him.  You scramble from your seat and grip the edge of your desk.  Medic has obviously fallen for the Spy’s trap.  

You frantically comb the control panel with your eyes.  The red button in the center is inviting and you slam it.  A miniature microphone snakes out, presenting itself alongside an ‘on’ switch.

“Medic!  That Heavy is a Spy!”  You exclaim through the microphone.

Everyone on the battlefield halts or hesitates, taken aback by the abruptness of your voice.  Most of them were unaware that you were spectating.  Medic tosses his healing technology to the side and equips his Syringe-gun.  

The enemy Spy only has enough time to retrieve his revolver before he becomes a human pin cushion of needles.  With the threat eliminated, Medic waves at the camera as a means of thanking you.  You melt back into your chair with a sigh of relief.


	3. Chapter 3

There is no lunch whistle freeing the mercs from the battlefield.  You spectate until noon, when the hunger in your belly becomes louder than the Administrator’s informative cries.   You head to the kitchen in search of lunch.  Engineer has seated himself at the round table and is in the process of leisurely consuming a sub sandwich.

“Are you taking a break from battle?” you question.  You rummage through the fridge.  You are inspired by his meal and intend to duplicate it.

“Yup.  It’s my lunch break.”  He glances over at the wall clock. “We’re allowed to take breaks at any time, but it is inadvisable that you abuse that privilege.”  There are no more tomatoes and the lunch meat is nearly exhausted.

“How long should I make my breaks?”  Engineer takes another bite and ponders your inquiry.  You forage through the cabinets in search of bread.  He finishes chewing and swallows.  “Anything over an hour is a bit excessive.”  

You nod.  You focus on constructing a sandwich with the few ingredients you’ve managed to scrounge together.  Engineer feasts slowly, savoring every bite.  The Administrator announces the loss of your intelligence.  You inspect Engineer’s reaction, but he remains unfazed and licks mustard sauce from his thumb.  He waits until you’ve taken several bites of your sub to communicate.

“Been meaning to ask, how are you getting along?”

You have chosen to lean against the counter as you eat.  You cover your mouth with the back of your palm.  “Good.”

You wave your hand to gesture you haven’t finished chewing.  You swallow prematurely, wincing as chunks of bread scratch the inside of your throat.  You let out a few coughs.  Your voice is hoarse through the first sentence you manage to string together, “I think I’ll be joining the fighting soon.  Probably the day after tomorrow.  I still have to pass my physical exam.”

Your throat itches to the point it makes your eyes water and you break into a coughing fit.  Engineer politely waits for it to pass.

“Should be easy.  Lookin’ forward to having ya’.”

It is disorienting to see Engineer act so casual after the morning you’ve spent observing him in combat.  His grin rivaled Medic’s as his sentries tore his opponents apart.  He patted his killing machine on the head and verbally praised it like it was a child who had gotten an A on a test.  At one point, he positioned a sentry in front of an enemy teleporter and laughed as the BLU team transported themselves into the line of fire.  

Now he is languid, as if the bloodlust has drained something from him.  He finishes his sandwich and sits still a moment, staring off in thought.  Your throat aches from the coughing fit.  You set your sandwich back on the plate and search the refrigerator for something to drink.

“Did ya’ need any supplies?”  The question throws you off guard.

“Supplies?” you echo.

“From town.  Sniper and I are headin’ out later today, after work,” he states, as if his profession is nothing out of the ordinary.

“I thought all our supplies came from a train.”  You retrieve a bottled water and shut the fridge door with your heel.

“Most of ‘em do.  But the train comes only every couple of months and some things just run out too gosh darn quick.”

You take a sip of the water and consider his offer.  “Can I come with you?”

“Sure.  We’ll probably meet up in the garage.  You know where that is.”

Engineer picks up his plate and transports it to the sink.  The general rule is to scrub off the grime, or at least leave the dishes to soak.  He rinses his tableware and sets it on the rack to dry.  He picks up another plate left behind by one of the other mercs.

“A mess like this will attract roaches,” he explains over the sound of running water.  You get a distinct sense he is tidying in an attempt to delay his reinstatement to the battlefield.  He is still washing the dishes by the time your meal is consumed.  You hand him your plate and meander through the halls with no particular destination in mind.

You do not return to the spectating room.  You have gleaned all the information you need to form a basic comprehension of how to win.  You are ready to fight along side RED when the time comes, assuming that you complete your physical.  You pass many rooms that do not have names or specific purposes.  They are used as storage at best.  The base is vast and you have not explored its entirety.

Somewhere near the dining hall, your footfalls come to a halt.  Explosions and gunfire hang in the distant air as background noise.  They are as natural as the sound of your breathing and you rarely pay them any mind.  It occurs to you that while everyone else is engaged in warfare, the showers will be empty.  Past lavation has been tense as the thought of being discovered has kept you on edge.  Now that your teammates are distracted, you are confident in your privacy.  

You turn in place and briskly gait towards the washroom.  You are familiar with its whereabouts, having bathed in the compound prior to today.  The entrance to the washroom consists of two sharp snaked turns.  The room itself resembles a high school gym locker or prison.  It has individual shower stalls with no doors.

You pile your clothes on to one of the benches.  You test the waters before entering the steaming streams.  Your muscles relax instantly.  After several minutes, it occurs to you that showers are not only recreational, but a method of cleaning one’s self.  You search the ledges for soap, but find none.  

You will have to buy some on the run into town later today or wait several weeks for the supply train shipment.  You turn off the water and take a crimson towel from the rack.  Once properly dried, you investigate the lockers.  There are different shampoos within and you create a game of trying to match them with their respective owners.  All the mercs own the same brand of scentless soap, which comes from the supply train.  It’s impossible to tell apart Heavy, Engineer, and Soldier’s lockers because they have no use of shampoo or conditioner.

Spy’s locker contains salon quality shampoos and extravagant body wash.  Pyro has actual bath toys and bubblegum scented bubble bath with extra bubble.  Demoman has a lot of products you never heard of and a showering cap.  The last three lockers are a mystery to the eye.  You inhale each bottle individually, attempting to match the fragrances to their owners.  You lower the bottle associated with Medic and read the label: Two-in-One dandruff remover.  You return everything to its rightful place and dress quickly.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The Administrator does not declare the war postponed until four in the afternoon.  It concludes the work day and you make your way towards the specified meeting spot in the garage.  You are the first to arrive and you take a seat at the round table.  You frequently glance up the wall clock, wondering if you misunderstood Engineer’s instructions.

It takes Engineer sixteen minutes before he arrives via teleporter.  The noise startles you and your hand finds your gun by reflex.  He gives you a friendly wave.  “I’m gonna bring the truck around.  Be back in a sec’.”

He opens the garage door.  You squint your eyes to the blinding rays.  Your vision still has not completely adjusted to the outside world when he returns driving a cardinal flatbed pick-up truck.  It sports wooden fence railing on either side of the truck-bed.  He parks inside the garage, but keeps the garage door open to let in natural light to work by.  

The hood of the vehicle is propped open with a large wrench as he sets about tinkering with the engine.  It appears to be in prime condition, but it has a plentiful stock of miles.  Other than a soft coating of dirt, the machine is well cared for.  

“Needs a good scrub… I’ll polish her after that,” he mutters to himself.  “Get more polish in town.”

It takes ten more minutes before Sniper appears.  He is still wearing his aviators, as if he’s long forgotten they rest on the bridge of his nose.  He transports an inconspicuous case housing his favorite rifle.  

Sniper takes the chair opposite of you and shuts his eyes.  You detect the faint aroma of tobacco.  The essence closely resembles Demoman’s own, considering that the Ciggy Stop vending machines are their shared preference of vendor.  It is vastly unseasoned in comparison to the flavored cigarettes Spy mass consumes.   

Several minutes pass and you are positive Sniper is asleep.  He only opens his eyes when Engineer guides down the hood of the truck.  Engineer inspects the beer in the fridge, but shifts his focus to a cream soda.  He seats himself between you and Sniper before taking a sip of the carbonated liquid.

“What are we waiting for?” you inquire.

“Scout.  He asked to accompany us on our expedition into town.  He’s probably using up all the hot water as we speak.”  Engineer sighs, “Now, I have a healthy appreciation for the kid bathing, what with the way he sweats during a match, but he spends so long in the showers.  Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he sprouted gills and a tail.”

You glimpse the corners of Sniper’s lips twitch upwards.  Engineer directs his full attention to him.

“Thanks for saving my rear out there earlier.  That spook nearly had me.”

“No problem, mate,” whispers Sniper in a husky Australian accent.  His voice is hoarse from lack of use.  He is a terse man and a lull forms in the conversation.  Engineer sips his drink quietly, lost in thought.  He turns to you suddenly, “You haven’t been paid yet, have ya?”

“No, I don’t get paid for another week.”

“Do you need me to float you a loan?”

“No, I still have cash from my previous job.”

Engineer visibly relaxes.  Scout’s voice appears from seemingly nowhere.  He’s bursting down the stairs at top speed while running his mouth as equally fast.  His words run into each other as he boisterously thinks aloud and it’s a miracle he doesn’t trip over his own feet because he pays the ground below him no concern.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.  I got held up being balled out by Spy.  Pompous know it all, thinks he can tell everybody how to do their frickin’ job.  I capture the briefcase way more than him!  Guy needs to learn how to lay off...”

Scout jogs up to the table, still trailing off a list of complaints.  His face is flushed and it’s not from running.  Sniper stands up and stretches, leading the way to the truck.  The wooden fence railing forces you to enter through the very back.  You position yourself near the driver carriage, while Scout perches beside you and Sniper settles in at the farthest end of the bed.  He tucks his rifle case between his spidery legs and lowers his head to his knees.

The truck starts smoothly and you reach open road in no time.  The breeze feels good on your face.  Engineer doesn’t drive more than forty miles per hour for risk of you and the others falling out the back, but the first bump you go over teaches you to hold onto the wood railing.  Your fingertips quickly perspire against the wood.  You occasionally release your grip and your sweaty palms instantly cool in the wind.  Sniper keeps a constant hold of his hat and Scout’s dog tags jingle softly.

The pavements snakes through the land with bends and twists, and your body moves against the pull of the truck, being pushed you left when Engineer turns right and vice-versa.  Out in the open, you feel exposed, as if the entire world can see you.  There are no other humans in sight, besides your fellow mercs.  The land is flat and you can see for miles on end.  Canyons keep their distance on the horizon and the wildlife is untamed, growing in patches where it pleases.  The only thing the scenery needs to be featured in a postcard is a few cow skulls scattered around.  

The difference between how often Sniper and Scout communicate is widely demonstrated on the ride over.  Sniper barely says two words while Scout only shuts up long enough to catch his breath.  By the time you arrive to the town, you could easily write Scout’s biography.  

You step out of the vehicle.  Dust erupts under your boots with each step.  The town is more extensive than you first realized, but it is made up predominantly of old money housing.  There is a limited amount of traffic and despite being a main road, several children utilize the middle of the street as a stage for a game of American football, or at least something that resembles the sport.  The folly has degenerated into keep-away tag and arbitrary tackling.

“When you’re finished shopping, meet back here,” announces Engineer.  Sniper remains seated in the back of the truck.  He is clearly in no hurry to take on whatever errand he has scheduled.

“Where’s the grocery store?” you inquire.

“Follow me, pally,” instructs Scout, already leading the way.  You lag behind at a leisurely pace, with Engineer by your side.  Yellow grass claws its way between the cracks in the sidewalk and you spot a colony of ants enjoying the spoils of a melted sucker.  Engineer makes a comment on the weather and you exchange simple pleasantries with him until he detours to Hardware Goods.

“Come on,”  Scout calls over his shoulder impatiently.  He considers his task complete once the grocery store is in view and he enters the foodmart long before you arrive at its entryway.  There is a soda vending machine beside the front sliding doors and acne-face youths in hoodies loiter against it.  You eavesdrop several mumbled protests of boredom as you immigrate into the refreshing air conditioning.

You shiver, sweat making your clothes cling to your frame.  You lick your dried lips and inspect the drinks on display in fridges near the checkout lanes.  Most of the bottles labels have sugar listed as the first ingredient.  You settle for can of lemonade and sip it as you investigate the store.

The shelves are stocked with a limited number of brands and products.  There are a total of four narrow aisles that only two average size adults can share alongside each other, assuming they have no distaste for cramped conditions.  Personal hygiene products, makeup, pet supplies, and baby care provisions sit perpendicular to cereal, crackers, and other boxed dry foods.

You find Scout eyeing the beer.  It dominates an entire wall of the freezer like a shrine dedicated to alcohol.  His hands are in his pockets.  You are unsure if he’s legally old enough to drink, but before you say anything, he turns to leave and spots you.  

“I think we’re outta milk.”

“Okay, grab some.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but changes his mind.  He bites his lip and disappears.  When he returns, his arms are bent at a weird angle trying to support the weight of a plastic crate full of milk bottles.

“We might need a cart.”

“So go get one.  I’ll watch the milk.”

You hear Scout returning before you see him and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’s selected the only cart in the store that’s squeaking up the aisle at twenty miles per hour.

“Hey, can we get some popcorn for movie night?” he requests as he comes around the corner.  At least you think it’s what he’s said, but you can’t be too sure with the hideous squeaks of the wheels clouding your hearing.  You ponder why he is requesting your permission, then it occurs to you he intends for you to pay for everything.

“Did you forget your wallet?”

“Nah, I didn’t bring one.”

You slide the crate closer to the cart.  You hand your lemonade to Scout and he watches as you relocate the milk into the basket.  “Yeah, sure.  Get whatever you need.”

Scout’s eyes light up.  Get whatever you need translates into soda pop, energy drinks, and a various assortment of junk food.  When you escort him to the register, he throws in a pack of bubblegum that comes with an attached mystery baseball trading-card.

“Thanks man!”  He smacks you on the back. With his groceries purchased, Scout vanishes out the door and grants you the peace to shop in a pressure free environment.  You discard you empty lemonade can and trade the cart Scout had selected out for one that doesn’t turn heads and summon scowls.  You buy a plentiful stock of monthy-time products, food that will last you at least as long as it will take for the supply train shipment to arrive, and as a last minute purchase, a chocolate ice cream bar.

Your supplies are tucked away inside several full brown paper bags.  You eat your ice cream as you walk and only a popsicle stick remains when you return to the truck.  You smell Sniper’s cigarette smoke as you approach.  He leans against the vehicle and observes traffic with solemn lines etched into his elongated face.  The children playing football from before are nowhere to be seen.

“Can you watch my bags?”

“Sure.”  

“Please don’t look inside them,” you request, setting the bags in the back of the truck.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says with amusement.  It occurs to you that Sniper is the type who only tends to speak when spoken to.  He keeps his sentences short and to the point.  Although you barely know him, there’s something trustworthy about him.

“Does this town have a library or a bookstore?”

“The bookstore is across from the coffee shop.  You want to go down Main an’ take a right at Lincoln.  The library is in the opposite direction, next to some school.”  He finishes his smoke and snubs out the life of the hot cherry under his boot.

“Thanks,” you offer as you venture back towards Main.  You follow Sniper’s directions and easily spot The Thrifty Bookstore.  The name is labeled in large silver letters above a open black door.  You step inside and your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimly lit interior.  The carpet is viridian and matches the paint on the front of the store, or at least it did many years ago.  Now the carpet is faded and worn-down from years of treading.

“No eating in here!” the shopkeeper screeches from behind the counter.  She is witchy in appearance, with a beak-like nose that supports the golden frames of her glasses and lengthy kept fingernails that make turning the pages of books easier.  Her hair is more gray than brunette, and the wrinkles around her mouth are heavily defined from days of laughter that have long since past.    

She gives you a stern look of disapproval before she catches sight of your personified merc patch.  Her eyes widen.  You pull the popsicle stick from your mouth.  It is warped from saliva and decorated in bite marks.

“Do you have a trash can?”

“You’re one of those mercenaries!” she spits.

“Is that a problem?”

“It is in my shop.  Do you know how many times I’ve asked Sergeant Doe to stop trying to contact me?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who that is.”

“Jane Doe.”  She states and upon witnessing your befuddled expression, she continues, “The angry one who threatens to blow up my shop with me inside if I don’t carry his favorite book.  I’ve tried to explain to him, Sun Tzu never wrote any books on punching through a man’s rib cage, but he won’t listen and accuses me of being a communist!”

“Soldier?”

“That’s the one.  You’re an accomplice of his, aren’t you.”   It’s not a question.

“More of an acquaintance.  If you would like, I could have a word with him and ask him to stop.”

“I would appreciate that, thank you very much.” she huffs.  She hasn’t evicted you from the shop yet, but her brows remain tightly furrowed.  You bite your lip, eyeing the books longingly.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize.  “Soldier means well, but he believes what he wants to.  It’s easier just to play along.”  

“What am I supposed to tell him next time he calls?” she demands.  The anger in her voice is replaced by a shake.

“Make something up… tell him you’ll order it.  When he calls again, explain it got lost in shipping.  Find someone else to blame.”

The shopkeeper stares at you.

“He’s not mentally stable,” she hisses softly, as if she’s afraid he is waiting around the corner to argue the point.

“That debatable… can I still buy your books?  I just want something to read.  I won’t cause trouble.”

She narrows her eyes and pauses to consider the matter.

“I suppose.  But if you threaten me in anyway, shape, or form, I’m calling the police.”

She reaches for a small trash bin from behind the desk and extends it towards you.  As you discard the popsicle stick, you can not help but note the other contents of the bin.  It includes crumbled up balls of paper, used tissues, gum, and a pencil that’s been broken in two.  The shopkeeper’s perfume is sweet and sickly, and puts you in mind of dying roses.  Up close, you can see that her hands are trembling.

The shopkeeper pretends to resume reading, but her pupils remain stationary on the page until you turn your back.  You feel her eyes bore into you.  You peruse through the novels and occasionally glance up to catch her shifting her gaze away from your direction.  Most of the books are renowned classics.  The only romance novel you come across is Romeo and Juliet, featured alongside many of Shakespeare's other works.  The pages in the room are filled with more voice of more white English men than US parliament.  

You pile the books in your arms, and when the increasing number becomes too awkward to hold, you transfer them to the floor.  You continue to stack books in a pile until you have enough to build a throne for a dwarf king.

“Do you have any boxes I could put these in?” you request after adding The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes to the top.

“Will you be purchasing them?”  She puts emphasis on the word purchasing.

“Of course.  I have plenty of cash.”

“Does your line of work...” she hesitates, before continuing in a whisper, “Pay well?”

“That’s one of it’s major benefits, yes.”

She stares at you.

“...So about those boxes.” you remind and it seems to snap her back to reality.

“Oh yes… one moment.”  She disappears behind an old door with chipping paint.  Your heart pounds in your chest.  You repeatedly glance at the exit.  You empty your hands and listen for the sound of police sirens, mentally preparing yourself to burst into flight at the first sign of trouble.  The wait feels like an eternity, but she returns with the boxes in time a frame faster it would take to telephone the authorities.

You shovel the books into your arms and make several trips from your hoard to the front desk.  She manually types in the price of each book on an old register.  A thief could easily swap the handwritten price stickers on the books for thefted discounts.  She presses in the numbers delicately, as if she’s forgotten how to operate the machine.  You ponder if the sun will set before her task is complete.  The front door bell jingles and you turn to see Scout.  He’s sweaty and panting from jogging around in the heat, and there’s dirt on his shirt that you haven’t noticed until now.

“Hey man, what’s the hold up?”  He walks over to you, his jaw clicking as he chews gum.  He catches sight of the books and laughs.  “Oh my god, you’re a frickin’ nerd.  I knew it.”

“I like to read.”  You shrug.  

“Yeah, cause you’re a nerd,” Scout playfully teases.  He picks up a copy of The Great Gatsby.  You can see his gum as he talks.  His earthy, sweaty, bubble gum aroma clashes against the moldy, dusty smell of the shop.

“Hey, I remember this one from school.  It’s about some guy that throws like real nice parties and doesn’t go to ‘em cause he’s obsessed with some chick.  What a loser,” Scout scoffs and begins flipping through the pages, “Didn’t they turn it into a movie or something?”

“There are two film adaptations,” interjects the storekeeper.

“Oh yeah?” replies Scout with minimal interest.  He pops a bubble, almost without thought.

“I’m sorry young man, but there is no food allowed in my shop,” says the shopkeeper pointedly, noticing Scout’s bubble gum for the first time.

“Gum isn’t food,” he argues.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Scout furiously chews, preparing the biggest bumble he can muster.  The shopkeeper jumps when it pops and you massage your ear.  Scout’s chest swells with pride.

“I was leaving anyways.”

He sets the book back on the pile.  The shopkeeper takes it and types into the register, glaring at Scout the whole time.  She types in the wrong price and you don’t bother to correct her.  Scout lowers his voice and points over his shoulder towards the door, “Listen, so the others want me to tell you to hurry up and get back to the truck.”

“Just tell them I need to finish buying these books.”

“Okay.”  He scratches at the back of his head.  The shopkeeper gives a fake obvious cough.

“I’m going.  Don’t get your panties in a bunch ya’ old hag.”

Scout wanders towards the door, briefly pausing by a bin of resale books.  You finish purchasing your novels and as you make your way to the exit, you spot fresh pink bubble gum glued to the side of a bookshelf promoting Charles Dickens.


	4. Chapter 4

“That’s the last of them,” you sigh, heaving your cargo onto the dusty floor of the earth.  You wipe the sweat from your brow.  Sniper does not bother to mask the glower glances he casts at the cardboard containers that dare to cramp his leg space.  You haven’t seen him smile once since you returned from the bookstore.

“Ya’ know we got a library back at the base, right?” questions Engineer, gawking from behind his goggles at the mass hoard of books.

“We do?”

“Yes siree, in the East Wing.  Hey, do you need a hand with those?”

“No, but thanks for the offer.”  You drive boxes into Scout’s side to make room for the last of the novels.

“I can take a few of those up in the front.”  Engineer points to the the driver’s seat with his gloved hand.

“Please do,” grumbles Scout.  Engineer steps around the front of the truck and loads three boxes into the passenger seat beside his mini sentry and toolbox.  You hop into the back, pinning yourself between containers of science fiction fantasy and crime drama.

“I got no room for my frickin’ legs,” gripes Scout as Engineer starts up the engine.  The wind is thick with sand and dust, but feels cool against your face and arms.  You have tied your jacket around your waist to help keep you from overheating.

“Hey, at least we won’t get bored,” you joke.  Sniper’s face softens ever so slightly.  Scout’s jiggling kneecaps repetitiously thump against the cardboard containers.

“I can’t read in a moving vehicle.  I’ll get car sick,” admits Scout.  You eye him with interest.  This is the closest you’ve seen him come to admitting a weakness.  He appears to think nothing of it and digs around in his bag of groceries.  He pulls out a bag of chips.

“You want some chips, bookworm?”

“What flavor?”

He inspects the bag.

“Original?  I just said I can’t read in a moving car or I’ll get carsick… gimme a minute… yeah, they're original.”

He extends the bag to you and you take a handful.

“Aren’t you not supposed to eat salty snacks in the desert?” you say after you finish chewing.

“What?”

“You'll get dehydrated, right?”

“Probably,” replies Scout, then he takes another large handful of chips and shoves them in his mouth.  “Snipes, you want in on this?”

“I’m good,” answers Sniper in low grunt.  You lean in towards Scout.

“Is he mad at me?” you whisper.

“What?”

“He seems aggravated I brought all the books into the truck.”

“Nah, he’s just like that whenever he goes into town.  Something to do with family, I think.”  You have no difficulty hearing Scout’s voice over the wind in your ears.

“He has family in the town?”

“Nope.  He calls them from the payphone.  Sometimes he checks the post office, comes back with letters or whatever.  His parents are pissed he’s a merc.”

“Oh.”

Sniper exhales a sigh and you think he might be able to hear you.  You straighten your back and elevate your voice back to a casual volume.

“Can I have some more chips?”

“Yeah sure, I don’t care.  You bought ‘em.”

You take another handful.  Scout wipes chip crumbs from his lips.  You go over a bump and for a moment you are fearful the books will fall out the end of the truck.  Sniper’s legs act as a safeguard and keep the boxes in place.

“Man it would totally suck if we got stranded out here,” voices Scout, thoughtfully.

“What about my books?”

“What about ‘em?”

“How would we get them to the base?”

“Oh my god, you are such a nerd.  We’d have to ditch the books.”

“And the food?”

“Well I dunno about the food...” Scout’s voice trails off.  “We could always hitch hike.  I don’t think there’s anybody more dangerous than us out here.”

“There’s not a lot of cars… we’d probably have to walk.”

“Oh god no.  Hey Snipes, you’re a walking nature survival guide, what’da we supposed to do if we get stranded?  You’d help us out, right?”

“Yeah,” Sniper replies from under his hat, which he’s laid out across his face.  He leans back against the wood railing, trying to sleep or at least pretending to.  There’s a pause.  

“Nothing to add to that?”  Scout raises his brow.  He’s slowed down his consumption of the potato chips, taking one or two absentmindedly now and again.  Sniper sighs, put off by the idea of having to use his energy to communicate.

“They say you’re supposed to stay where you are.  I think that’s a bunch of ‘orse piss.  Grab what you can carry, mostly drinks and weapons.  We wouldn’t need to take the food.  You strip off yer extra layers of clothes.  Leave on yer shoes and boots, and whatnot.  Start walking.  You can drink your piss if it comes down to it.”

“Gross.”  Scout’s face wrinkles with disgust.  Sniper’s lips curl upwards.

“Wait, so do you drink your own piss or your friend’s piss?” you question.  The look on Scout’s face is worth it.  Sniper lets out a wry cackle.  

“Dunno about that.  I’d prefer mine home brewed, if you know what I mean.”

“Can you guys shut up?” whines Scout.  Sniper lifts up his hat, holding it a few inches from his face to keep the sun off of his face.  He awkwardly makes eye contact with Scout through his aviators.  He licks his lips in a subtle way that makes only the the tip of his tongue visible.

“I wouldn’t worry about it kid.  We’re not going to get stranded.  Truckie takes good care of this beaut.”  He pats the side of the truck.  “When have you ever known him to neglect a piece of machinery?  Goes against his nature.  He’d consider it child abuse, they’re practically his offspring.”

“Yeahyeahyeah, I know I know,” lips-off Scout.  He crinkles the bag and keeps it closed beneath his curled fingers.  “Being stranded ain’t what I got a problem with.”

You look out across the land.  Cacti cast long shadows.  You can see winged creatures soaring against the unending blue.  It hurts your eyes to look into the bright sky, but you squint and study the birds.  You don’t have enough details to define their species.  You wonder if they are large birds that are vastly distanced or petite birds that are not as far away as they seem.  If you plucked them from the sky and held them in your hands, they would be smaller than your fingernails.

“Why’d you come with us?”

You look back at Scout.  He glances at Sniper, whose relocated the hat to his face and is attempting to sleep again, then back to you.  

“Are you talking to Sniper or me?”

“Snipes.”

“Van has a flat tire,” mutters Sniper from under his hat.

“How?”

A soft growl emits deep in Sniper’s chest, like a volcano that’s reminds everyone it’s capable of erupting.  His shoulders are tense and his balled fists rest against his rifle case.  When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly gentle, “Ran over some glass.  Its no one’s fault but my own.”

“It happens,” you sooth.  He takes a deep breath and licks his lips again.  Scout’s knee start jiggling against the containers of books.  You had not noticed they had stopped.  He wipes his fingers on his trouser legs and puts the bag of chips back in his grocery bag.  It blossoms open without anything to hold it shut.

“Hey Y/N, when you gonna fight with us on the battlefield?  You chicken or something?”

You are taken aback by the abruptness of the question and stutter, “Well, I-I have, you know, have to pass a physical first.”

“Oh man, you’re totally screwed,”

“What?  Why?”

“Cause Medic will probably experiment on you before he lets you pass.  He’ll cut off your hands and replace them with bird wings or somethin’ weird like that.”

You laugh.  Sniper holds unnaturally still.

“Seriously, I need to pass the physical or I’ll be fired.”

“S-C-R-E-W-E-D.”

“Sniper, Medic’s not actually like that, right?”

“…He does his job professional like.  It’s the only thing that matters to me.”  Sniper’s reply is muffled under his hat.

“You’re just screwing with me.”

“Mostly,” Scout laughs nervously, “but the doc does do weird stuff to us.  Not as much as he used to though.  Heavy really gets the worst of it.  He lets Medic do whatever he wants to him.  Thank god, cause if Medic experiments on him, he ain’t experimenting on us.”

The conversation dissolves into Scout bragging about his abilities on the battlefield.  He gives you a play by play of each victory he’s secured within the past month, which is either impressive or an over exaggeration.  Sniper is snoring by the time you reach the base.  His boots are hooked under the wood paneling, so even while he sleeps he can keep the boxes gated in.

Once back in the garage, you use the teleporter to expedite the transportation of your new books to your room.  You deliver the groceries to the kitchen and briskly throw together a meager dinner for one.  With your meal consumed, you are free to embark on an exploration of the East wing in search of the library.

You find it through double doors a short distance from the dining hall.  It acts as a storage facility for items that are not of the literary nature.  Boxes crowd the aisles between modest bookshelves and filing cabinets line the walls.  There is a lack of proper reading light.  The room has an air of being converted into a library as a last minutes idea.

Heavy sits in isolation at a white table, consumed in a brown leather-back novel.  It is comically smaller than his hands.  Reading spectacles adorn his face.  They resemble Medic’s glasses, but they have a thinner wire.  You pull out a chair from the same table and seat yourself directly across from him.  The chair scraping over the linoleum floor is enough to stir him his deep concentration.  He looks up from his book.

“I need to talk to you,” you announce.  The opportunity could not be better if you had planned it.  You are the only two people visible in the room.

“Yes?”

He lowers the book.  You glance at the words to discover they are printed in Russian.  

“I want to know more about Medic.  You two seem close.”

Heavy’s expression brightens.

“Doktor is good friend.  You are worried about physical exam?  He says you finally agree to it.”

You do not answer.

“He is good doktor.  Sometimes gets carried away by excitement, but still good doktor.”

“So you think he is trustworthy?”

Heavy considers you.

“Why do you ask this?” he questions with a raised brow.  You pause.  You choose your words.

“Do you think Medic could be trusted with a secret?”

“What is secret?  You have a weakness?  A disease?”

“No, nothing like that.”

You drum your fingers on the table, thinking of a proper way to word your distress.

“I would rather just keep it to myself.  It doesn’t affect my combat skills, I assure you.”

“This is good.”  Heavy nods.  “Just tell doktor to keep it secret.”

“You think he will?”

“Da, of course.”

The room goes quiet.  Heavy’s eyes drop to the book.  You are aware of the coolness of the library and the jacket still tied to your waist.  You are reluctant to wear it, for fear of becoming too warm.  You notice the sound of the wall clock, and then Heavy’s breathing.  His breaths are much deeper than your own.  His chest lifts softly with each inhale.  He is very still, except for his eyes.   

“What are you reading about?”

He looks up, as if he’s surprised you are still present.  
“Is story of person’s life written by the person.”

“An autobiography?”

“Yes, this.”

“Is it good?”

“Maybe, I do not know.  I need to read more.”

“Did you want me to leave then?”

“Yes.” he answers bluntly.  You stand to leave.  The sun has not set yet, but you wish him a goodnight.

“Goodnight,” he replies and resumes his book.  You stroll towards the exit.  You only a manage a few footfalls before you penetrate a faint cloud of cigarette smoke.  The invisible vapor is scented with the kind of exotic flavoring that your allied Spy has specially imported.  You turn your head every which way, but the spook is nowhere to be seen.  Your standstill produces neither hide nor hair of him.  The fragrance dissipates and only doubt remains of its existence.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

You dream many things that night, but you do not remember them.  It’s like flipping through a magazine and only catching quick glimpses of images.  You form no solid comprehension of what you’ve seen.  Only echoes of forms remain, and they slip through the cracks of your mind like sand.

You wake with ache in your skin.  Your arms are a darker shade and they burn as if there’s fire trapped beneath them.  You have spent most your days indoors for some time and you’ve forgotten how unforgiving the sun’s rays can be on exposed skin.  You attempt to go about your morning routine as best as you can manage, but you skin aches with every bend.

You make your way to the hospital wing.  You have no idea where you’re supposed to meet him, but you catch the hint of classical opera and follow it.  It pours out from underneath one of the wooden doors.  You knock loudly.

“Yes?” Medic calls.

“Medic, I need to talk to you.”

There’s a pause and footsteps approach the door.  Medic opens the door, revealing that the music is coming from a record player.  His face is mostly shaved and he holds a plastic razor in one hand.  His doves flutter around in the background, stretching their wings after a long night of slumber.

“Vhat is it?”

You eye the lathered shaving cream on his throat.  He hasn’t put product in his hair yet and it goes every which way.  There’s a white feather attached to the brunette strands a short distance from his graying temples.

“I don’t know if I can do the the physical examination today.  I have a bad sun burn.”

He rubs his face, trying to gather himself.  “Let me see it.”

You raise your bare arm to his line of vision.  He grabs holds of the lighter under part of your arm and bends your elbow, bringing the arm out to full length.

“This isn’t so bad.”  He pokes the sore flesh and you jerk free of his grip.  “I can fix zhis.  Go vait by the operating room.  I vill only be a few more minutes.”

He leaves the door open and returns to shaving.  You are tempted to stay and watch, but you follow your orders and find hallway leading to the operating room.  You take a seat outside, in one of the prison orange chairs.  They’re uncomfortable to sit in, not matter how you arrange yourself.  You sit upright.  You slink down, so your stomach folds.  You place two chairs beside each other and try to lay in them.  Your feet extend over the side and you stare at the ceiling.  There’s a brown smudge puddle next to one of the pipes that looks suspiciously like dried blood.

You ponder the smudge.  How did it get there?  How long has it been there?  Is it actually blood?  Does anyone else know it’s here?  Perhaps it is simply water that had warped the color of the ceiling panel.  If it was blood, how would it even get up there?  It’s definitely a drip pattern.  Why would blood drip from the ceiling?  Someone would have noticed.  Would they have cared?  

There are multiple floors to the building, someone could have been killed on the floor above this one.  Who were they?  Where they friend or foe?  Did they know their blood would stain the ceiling of the floor below them forever?  If they were an ally, do they ever come by the medical wing and stare up at their blood and remember what it was like to be murdered?  Would they go out of their way to avoid looking at it?  What if it’s not actually blood?

The sound of Medics approaching footsteps pull you back to reality.  You sit upright and push the second chair away.  Medic rounds the corner, looking his pristine self.  He’s even wearing his lab coat.

“That took longer zhan expected,”  he says as he unlocks the operating room.  “Please have a seat on the table.”

You sit on the metal operating table.  He snaps on gloves and goes to the medicine cabinet.  He returns with a miniature glass bottle of red salve.  

“What’s that?” you inquire.

“It’s a medical ointment.  I invented it myself,”  Medic’s chest swells.

“It’s powered by the same formula used in the Medigun.  This is the latest version.  I’m attempting make it more edible.  Did you want to try it?”

“It wasn’t edible before?”

“No one died from it.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Are you sure?  It’s strawberry flavored.”

He extends the bottle to you.  It has an artificial scent to it.

“No thank you.”

He sets the bottle on a nearby tray.  He dips his fingers in the medicine, evenly coating the rubber finger tips.  “I need to test it to make sure it is still effective.  Give me your arm.”

You bend your elbow flat and flinch when his gloved fingers come in contact.  The ointment is cool against your burning skin.  It prickles with a thousand invisible needles as if it’s a sleeping limb you tried to shake awake.  The stinging immediately transforms into a pleasant tingling sensation.  You can hear you heart pounding in your ears and you're glad he’s wearing gloves so that he can’t feel your racing pulse.

Your skin shifts back to it’s natural color.  He evenly coats both arms before he commands you to lean forward.  You bend your head down and stare at your knees.  You can feel his torso a short distance from the top of your head, and his stomach lightly brushes against your hair.  He applies more cream to his fingers and massages the back of your neck.

“Look up.”

You look him in the eyes.  They flash with calculation.

“You’re face is a bit red too,” he notes aloud.  He applies a final layer of ointment to the glove and lightly rubs your cheeks.  The heat doesn’t die even after the burn is healed.

“If that’s all taken care of, ve can move on to the examination.”

You hold you breath.

“What does the examination entail?”

“Nothing to vorry about… I’ll ask you some questions, check your heart rate, take your pulse.  Simple things.  Zhen ve vill test your endurance.”

“So I won’t have to undress?”

Medic’s composure slips and he burst into giggles.

“Not unless you vant to,” he responds, with bits of laughter still in his voice.  He goes into his desk and pulls out a clipboard.  His smile fades into concentration as he carefully inspects your medical records.

“Your medical records are vague.  Zhis is… have you ever actually been examined?”

“I try not to keep records of myself.”

“Vell zhat makes sense.  I hope you don’t mind, I keep records of all my subjects.”

“I’d rather you don’t.”

“Vell you don’t really have a choice in the matter.  Lets get started zhen, shall we?  I vill ask you some brief questions, as I said before.  Please answer them honestly...  how often do you smoke?”

“I don’t.”

He pauses to write something down.

“How often do you drink?”

“Rarely.”

“Sexual history?”

When you don’t respond, he looks up from the clipboard at you.

“Sexual history?” He repeats louder.

“I would rather not disclose.”

“I am you doctor, it is important that you are open with me.”

“Is it mandatory that I tell you?”

“Limited disclosure may skewer the results of the tests-”

“It’s not mandatory.  What’s the next question?”

Medic scowls, clearly annoyed.  He moves onto questions of diet and exercise.  When he finishes jotting down notes, he wanders towards one of the cabinets and returns with a medical bag.  He produces a stethoscope and manual sphygmomanometer from the bag.

Medic adjusts the earpieces of the stethoscope into his ears.  He takes a moment to test the device to see if it is working.  He positions the bell of the stethoscope between his middle and index finger before placing it against your clothed chest.  He listens into the ear pieces as he indents the diaphragm into calculated spots on your chest.  He relocates the diaphragm between the shoulder blades of you back.

“Deep breaths,” Medic requests.  He writes down his findings and moves on to measuring blood pressure with the sphygmomanometer.  He wraps the cuff around your upper arm and positions the stethoscope chest piece underneath the cuff.  

You silently observe him palpate your wrist for a pulse.  He gives the bulb of the sphygmomanometer steady squeezes.  The cuff around your arm inflates and chokes your blood flow, sending the meter upwards.  Medic gives the bulb several more squeezes before carefully studying the dial as it deflates.  He scribbles the data down on his clipboard and returns the tools to the bag.

“Alight, follow me,” commands Medic, clicking the bag closed.  He strolls to the tall measuring scale.  You jump from the operation table.  You drift towards the weight gauging device.  After you step foot on the scale, Medic aligns the dials.  He records your weight.  He has you stand with your back to the wall while he measures your height.

“Alright,  now ve must test your physical endurance.”

You follow Medic outside to the track.  You spot Scout in a track suit hoodie.  He speeds up to the fence to greet you.

“Hey bookworm, you gonna run the track?  Try not to choke on my dust,” teases Scout.

“Do you want to race?” you challenge.

“That would be abuse, cause I’m gonna whip you.  I’m even gonna beat your ass to the starting line.”  He laughs and speeds towards the starting numbers painted on the all-weather running track.

“I do not advise zhis.  Scout vill win,” cautions Medic.

You jump over the metal chain link fence and sprint after your teammate.  Scout pretends to yawn with boredom as you arrive.  Medic jogs to catch up, fumbling through the pockets on his belt for his stopwatch.

“You can start on my mark,” he explains, focusing on the timing device.

“I’ll give you a fifteen second head start.”  Scout throws you a sideways cocksure sneer.  You bend your knees, positioning yourself for the takeoff.  Medic raises his fingers to signal the encroaching countdown.  You hold your breath.

“Eins, Zwei, Drei, Go!”

You burst into motion and pump your legs as hard as you can.  You intend to make those fifteen seconds work to your advantage.  You track them mentally.  Fifteen seconds pass and you are still in lead.  You are about a third of the way down the side of the track when Scout whizzes by.

“My grandma could run faster than you!” he mocks.  You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

Scout bursts down the track at the speed rate of a professional athlete.  He hasn’t stopped grinning when he completely overlaps you a second time.  You complete four laps in the time it takes him to do ten.  You bend forward to clutch your knee and catch you breath while Medic records your time.

“I told you it vas a bad idea.”  Medic does not bother mask his amusement.

“Is there anything else we have to do?” you pant.  

“Zhe weight room.”

The war alarms sound before you reach the gym.

“Do you need to go?” you question.  Medic shakes his head.

“Nein, I vant to complete zhis.”

The weight room resembles a high school gymnasium.  There is a wide boxing ring and various weight room equipment.  Natural light swarming with dust streams in onto the waxed wood floors from windows above.

The combination of heavy lifting and prescribed stretches expands the ordeal over an hour in length.  You demonstrate sit ups, push ups, jumping jacks, and a series of physical feats Medic demands of you seemingly off the top of his head.  You are sweating by the end of the examination.  Medic flips through the clipboard, double checking the data.  

“You’ve passed the physical,” he declares as an after thought.

You rest on one of the weight lifting benches, trying to steady your breathing.

“Great.  Can I join the fighting yet?”

“Not just yet.  First you must meet Spy for weapons examination.”

“Weapons examination?”

Medic gives the pages one last look over before letting the clipboard fall to his side.

“Yes.  He vill be testing your skills in the target practice room.  I must contact him and tell him his presence is now required.”

“Can you hold off on that?  I need to take a quick break.”

“I’ll give you five minutes,”  Medic states.

You spring from your seat.

“Make it ten,” you reply before sprinting out the door and down the halls.  

You head straight to your room and find your jacket.  You were unable to wear it while sporting a sunburn, but now you’re arms are healed, you are free to don it on.  You find your way to the lavatory.  You wash your face in the sink before you seek out Spy.  The target practice room is in a warehouse on the West wing.  It takes less than ten minutes to find it, but Spy is already waiting for you.  

“You came straight from your physical evaluation,”  remarks Spy, reclining against a crate with a fresh cigarette between his lips.

Similar to the weight room, there are windows directly below the ceiling.  There are wooden crates, yellow barrels, and even payload bombs pushed up against the walls.  There is a tall metal chain length fence stretching from the ceiling to floor between you and the cardboard cutouts of the BLU team targets.  The gate has been unlocked.

“Is that a bad thing?”  

Your boots echo against the sanded, yet cracked concrete floor as you approach.  He takes a drag from his smoke before speaking.

“No.  In fact, zhis may better suit in gaging your abilities.”  He props himself upright and paces about the room as he speaks, “On the field, you will have to spend all day straining your muscles.  Zhere is no room for weakness.  You must be at your prime at all times.”

You find the lecture about physical health to be odd coming from a man who chain smokes.

“I passed my physical examination.”

“I don’t doubt it.  But zhis is ze shooting range.”  Spy removes a large-barrel revolver from his suit pocket and continues past the fence gate into the practice area.  He never breaks eye contact as he lines up the barrel of his gun to cardboard Scour target, “And here we will test your aim.”

He shoots and hits the target dead center in forehead.  He quickly glances over to be sure his eccentric shooting actually made contact with his mark.  He contains his excitement behind lit up gun metal eyes that return to piercing your own.

“Show me what you are capable of.”

You take the piece from your back and load it.  You turn off the safety and aim it.  You pull the trigger several times, hitting a different Scout target in the head three times.

“It would be impressive, only you’ve used too many bullets.  A headshot only requires one.  Furthermore, you have a decent comprehension of gun safety and are unlikely to blow your foot off, but loading takes too much time.  I want you to keep ze gun loaded at all times, we are prone to constant attacks.  Shoot a few more times, zhen I’ll be glad to issue you a passing grade.”

You take down a cardboard Soldier and Pyro with a bullet each.  Spy nods with approval.

“Congratulations, you’ve passed.  You have earned ze right to die repetitively in combat over and over again until you go mad.  Enjoy.” he says with his arms folded across his chest and the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

“Thanks?”

Spy blinks.

“Je suis désolé.  Do not take my joke to heart, my friend.  Go.  Have fun.  You are cleared for combat.  The world is your oyster.”


	5. Chapter 5

You briefly visit your chambers to retrieve your duffle bag of weapons.  You use the teleporter to transport yourself inside of respawn and dump your armory on one of the wooden benches.  You conserve the guns and knives by lightly weighting your pockets with a small selection.  You turn off the safety of the shotgun in your hands before you step out the doors into the battlefield.

Explosions thunder in the distance.  You detour back into the base, tip toeing through the halls towards the intelligence room.  The room is spacious and round with curving walls.  There are several metal ledges on the walls above and one overhanging directly above the intelligence.  The beeps of a defending sentries echo like background music.  

You approach the RED intelligence.  It swivels at a fix point a few feet off the ground.  You grab hold of the handle.  You tug upward, but the briefcase remains stationary.  You firmly plant both feet on either side of case and wrap all available hands on the handle in an attempt to heave it from its stubbornly rooted location.  You emulate the tale of King Arthur’s attempt to acquire Excalibur, but you make no gain.

You straighten your back.  You turn and focus your line of vision on the entryways leading into the intelligence room.  You stand erect, mentally preparing for an attack.  As time passes, your shoulders slouch.  You sit on the elevated step in front of the briefcase.  You handgun begins to slip in your fingers as your hand perspires.  You wipe your palms against your pants legs.

You hear a zapper comes to your right.  You jump from your seat and swing sideways.  You are greeted by the sight of BLU Spy on the upper ledge.  He gives you a wave and condescending smirk before ducking behind the malfunctioning sentry to dodge the bullets of your gun.  You pause to reload. You do not complete the task. Shots reverberate off the walls and your legs crumble from underneath you.  Your forehead collides into a concrete raise in the floor.  Your jaw vibrates from the impact.

You grasp for coherent thoughts as footfalls race from the entrance.  You try to crawl upright, but the room spins around you.  A hand claws at the sharp throbbing in your side and you recognize it is your own, balling the fabric between your fingers to stop the blood.  You concentrate, coming to the conclusion that you have been shot in the waist and leg.

Your veins turn to ice when a gun is pressed against the side of your temple. Shifting your gaze with ajar lips, you come face to face with the BLU version of yourself.  The warmth that you’ve grown accustomed to in mirrors and reflective shop windows is absent.  It has been replaced by cold, emotionless eyes that bores into you from the other end of the barrel.

“This isn’t personal.”

The world is immediately a void, empty black when BLU Y/N pulls the trigger.  You have no sense of the passage of time and you blink to find yourself in respawn.  Waves of nausea are the first thing you register.  It takes all for your willpower not to throw up.  You collapse on the bench beside your duffle bag of weapons.  

Your head pounds at the disapproving roar the Administrator stressing the abduction of your intelligence.  As far as you’re concerned, respawn sickness could be synonymous with the word hangover.  Your illness disables you from standing, let alone returning to battle.  Most of your itinerating teammates who misfortunate upon respawn do not question your timeout, but Demoman manifests into the room with a pop and gives you a sideways glance.

“You won’t get any kills sitting out, laddie.”

You massage your temples, grimacing as you respond, “I just need a minute.  My head is going to explode.”

He lowers his voice in sympathy.

“Aye, respawn’s a bitch.  First time’s always the worst too.” He takes a quick sip of scrumpy. “Hang on a minute.”  

Demoman does a jump spin into a teleporter and evaporates into a flash of crimson smoke and yellow sparks.  When he materializes into the room again, he tosses a miniature white plastic bottle your direction.  You catch the medication with one hand and inspect the label.

“Hangover pills?”

“I could kiss whoever made these.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.  Got plenty scattered ‘round, you can keep ‘em,” he replies.  He takes final gulp to steel his nerves before barging out the doors of respawn with a boisterous war cry.  You disfavor dry swallowing pills, but your miserable state compels you abandon the principle of luxury.  You down two pills with some mild discomfort and wait for the sedative to kick in.

You observe the comings and goings of the revived RED.  When Pyro spawns into your field of vision, an idea strikes.

“Pyro, would you be willing to assist me?” you solicit.  Pyro tilts their head to the side with intrigue.

“I need to get revenge on someone,” you clarify.  Pyro rights their head and gives you a thumbs up.  “Mmm hm!”  

“I just need to locate them first...” you think aloud, holding your chin.

“Fvammoh ee,” Pyro advises, pointing their thumb over their shoulder towards the door.  You rise from your seat, temporarily abandoning the aspirin bottle.  Pyro impatiently taps their foot as you reload your weapon.  You cock your shotgun and shadow them out the exit.

To your surprise, Pyro double backs to your base.  You stifle your inquiries regarding the detour as they lead you down a flight of stairs to the basement sewer.  You pass several generators before you venture after them through an adequately lit tunnel.  The water goes past your ankles and splashes up your trouser legs as you jog into unknown territory.  

The sewer tunnel consists of multiple sudden turns that provide ample ambush positions.  It ends in a generator room identical to the one you entered through.

“...Is this the BLU base?” you question, searching for a factor of diversity.  Your eyes trail up stairs to the blue paint stripes on the walls of the landing.

“Mm hmm.”

Pyro begins their ascent into the base.  They retrace their steps on an identical route through the BLU compound and escort you out one of the doorways leading to the battlefield.  You twist your head from side to side, attentively keeping alert for your opponents.  The BLU respawn is a duplicate in design compared to your own.  You tip toe from the back and crouch behind a dead shrub on the left side of the shed.

“Are we going to ambush BLU?” you whisper.  Pyro nods in response.  They tap the eyes of their mask and point to the pathway leading from the respawn entrance.  You remain idle as the BLU Spy emerges.  He selects a disguise and strolls away in the form of Engineer.  He slips from view through a hidden passage located in the canyon wall.

You keep your eyes peeled from your BLU doppelganger, but the sting of smoke hits your nostrils and eyes.  You shift your attention back to Pyro, who entertains themselves by setting your cover ablaze with a matchbook.

“Stop that!” you hiss.  You jump upright, stomping out the growing flame.  You hear the respawn doors slid open.  A BLU Soldier runs straight into your line of vision.  

“Enemy Y/N!” Soldier exclaims, twisting on his heels to face you.  He launches a rocket in your direction.  Pyro expediently shoves you to the side and air blasts the missile back at him.  Soldier’s body explodes on contact and his limbs burst in every direction.

“We need to go,” you caution, aware that Soldier will resurrect in a matter of seconds.

“Mo.”  Pyro shakes their head.  They wave you off before sprinting in front of the doors with their weapon primed.  You tail them.

“I’m not leaving you.”  You raise your shotgun, aiming at the doors.  Pyro tilts their head, considering you.  They return their attention to the opening gates and blast fire through, earning the agonizing screams of the the BLU Sniper.  Pyro lets out a muffled hum of delight.  

They set nearly the entire variety of the opposing team ablaze before the doors stop opening.  The sound of a teleporter can be heard from within the shelter.  The Administrator announces the plunder of the enemy intelligence and Scout whizzes past a moment later with the briefcase strapped to his back.

A BLU Engineer emerges from one of the entrances of the compound and begins to erect a sentry.  You tug on Pyro’s shoulder to warn them.  They shift their footing to see the BLU Heavy and Demoman emerge beside the Engineer.  You sprint behind the opposing side of their respawn before the machine gun fire can make contact.  Pyro is not so lucky.  The thump of the body hitting the ground is inaudible over the sound of bullets raining against the shelter.  

A large number of your own teammates approach at a rushed pace.  Heavy and Medic lag behind them.  The BLU Heavy’s machine gun falters.  It buys you time to peek your head around the corner.  BLU Demoman sets sticky bombs around his Engineer’s sentry.  You witness the opposing Soldier rocket jump onto the roof of respawn.  You back up, aiming your shotgun at him.  His rockets tear you apart before you can pull the trigger to defend yourself.

You blink to discover you’ve awoken in RED respawn.  The queasy feeling in your gut has made a reappearance and waves of nausea ride up your esophagus.  You gulp down the taste of throw up.  You take shaky steps to your duffle bag that houses you inventory of firearms.   

Heavy pops back into existence a few feet from you.  He stands idle in the center of the room, waiting for Medic.  You massage your temples, considering your limited number of ammunition.  You discomfort does not go unnoticed.

“You look sick,”  Heavy comments, unsure of what to do.

“It’s just respawn.  Give me a minute.”

You gulp down a second wave a nausea that rises faster than its predecessor.  You put a hand to your lips as a precaution.  Medic appears from thin air a short distance from Heavy.  He is momentarily dazed as the torment of his death sifts through the cracks of his mind like sand.  You don’t understand the mechanics behind it, but respawn deletes the more painful memories of combat in order to keep the mercenaries sane.  

“Y/N is sick,”  Heavy informs him.  Medic blinks, coming to himself.  

“Respawn is cruel on the stomach the first few times.  Either take pain killer or dismiss yourself from the battlefield.”  He is clearly annoyed with trivial discomfort.  He focuses his healing ray on Heavy.  “Let’s go.”

Heavy heaves his sulking machine gun upright.

“Feel better,” he says before hobbling towards the exit with Medic trailing close behind.  You retrieve your duffle bag from the bench and trudge into the teleport.  You find the infirmary in the medical wing.  It is a dinky room with little to do in terms of decoration.  There are only nine beds.  

You collapse on the one closest to the door.  The thought of ordering a tenth bed has no doubt failed to cross Medic’s mind, but judging by the dusty reek of your pillow, the beds have rarely ever been put to use.

You lay onto off the sheets and consider you limited ammo supply.  The nearest town does not house a gun store and you would have to travel by train to locate one.  With some consideration through waves of subsiding nausea, it occurs to you Miss Pauling is reliable source to answer your question.

You gather your strength and exist the infirmary in search of a phone.  You make your way to the spectating chamber, where you recall the sight of a telephone.  You punch in the Miss Pauling’s emergency phone number.  It rings twice before she answers.

“What’s the problem?”  She answers in a business tone, prepared for the worst.

“There’s no problem.  Sorry for using this number, but I didn’t know how else to reach you.  I’m almost out of ammunition,”  You explain.  There’s a delay in response.

“It’s fine.  This is exactly the kind of thing my job entails.  For weapons and ammo, you’re going to want to order from a Mann Co. catalogue.  They’re somewhat pricey, but it’s worth the cost for the speed in which they deliver.  Plus, they also don’t ask too many questions.”

“Where can I find one?”

There’s a pause.  You hear something that sounds like a gun with a silencer being fired and the cry of a man’s last dying breath.

“You need a subscription, but I’ll bring you one of my spares later today,”  Miss Pauling answers in a perfectly leveled voice.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome-”

There’s ambience of police sirens quickly escalating in volume.

“Crap.  Gotta go.”

The line goes dead as she ends the call.  She doesn’t arrive at the compound until Seven pm.  She’s still wearing a bike helmet when she greets you and pulls you aside into one of the spare rooms.  The room resembles a classroom, with a large black board on the wall that has a world map tucked away above it.  Beside it is a brown pinboard with various notes pinned to it.  Most of the student desks have been pushed against the wall.  Miss Pauling hands you one of the copies of the Mann Co. catalogue that she had tucked under her arm and keeps the other for herself.  She sets her copy on the teacher desk.

You take a seat in the chair behind the teacher’s desk and skim through the pages.

“Some of these are interesting.”  You say after a minute.

“Did you see this Derringer on page twenty-five?”  Miss Pauling asks with enthusiasm.

“No, I haven’t,”  You flip to the specified page, “Oh, that’s nice.”

“I know right!”  Miss Pauling’s eyes light up.  You discuss firearms with enthusiasm and Miss Pauling has difficulty containing her smile.  She seems to prefer guns with smaller kick, but she hungrily eyes the shotguns.  

“Do you have a pen?” you ask after scanning over the pistols multiple time.  Miss Pauling reaches into her purse and retrieves a ball point fountain pen.  She watches over your shoulder for mistakes when you place the orders.  

The room goes silent except for the sound of turning pages.  You watch her briefly as you plan your words.  “Miss Pauling, if it’s not too much to ask, are we allowed to look inside the briefcase?  Or is that completely off limits?”

Miss Pauling looks up from her chewed pen and blinks.

“I didn’t explain this to you when I drove you here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, well the briefcases are actually filled with deeds.”

“Deeds?”

“Titles of ownership of certain provinces of the Badlands.  Your overall job is to deliver them to Redmond.”

“But we need to capture them first?”

“You got it.  Hey, have you seen the Shortstop!?  It’s got four barrels, wow.”

You get the distinct sense Miss Pauling is trying to change the subject.

“Who does BLU work for?”  You continue to press for information.

“Blutarch.  Redmond’s brother.  They’re in an eternal war over the land.  That’s all I know.”

It seems more likely that’s all she’s will to tell, but you don’t push your luck.  She does not speak again until you peruse the revolver section.  Twenty minutes pass in the blink of an eye.

“This has been fun, but I have to go,” states Miss Pauling.

“That’s a shame.”

“Sorry, my job keeps me busy.”  Miss Pauling shrugs and begins packing up her purse.  

“It was nice talking to you.  Thanks again for helping me out.”

“No problem, it’s my job.  Feel free to keep the catalogue.  You’ll need to get to get a subscription as soon as you can.  It will come in handy whenever you need to to order more ammo, plus Mann Co. is always coming up with new kinds of weapons.”


	6. Chapter 6

Your weapons arrive the next day.  Your crates are temporarily stored in the target practice room, along the wall.  You order is in a bulk immense enough to last you a month if you are gracious while deploying your ammunition.  After an early breakfast, you store a fifth of your artillery in Respawn for future convenience.

It takes nearly a week for you to learn to stomach regenerating.  You welcome the recess from conflict that presents itself on Saturday.  Curled underneath the covers of your bed with a favorable book, you savor the slow pace of the afternoon.  The day is overwhelmed with an overcast and the open shades allow for natural light illuminate your chambers.  

Since your arrival, the aruoma of you bedroom has been heavily influenced by a stockpile of car fresheners that hang from the ceiling fan.  Your bed sheets are freshly washed and have absorbed the natural scent of being hung to dry in the desert wind.  The furniture produces a lingering hint of disinfectant that was utilized in a sanitation process.  

You inhale the new book smell before flipping the page.  The novel becomes increasingly more climactic as the words march across the page.  You early flip from page to page, absorbed in the fictional word.  

A knock at your door jostles you back to reality.  You pull the covers aside and set your bare toes on thin carpet.  You tuck the book under your arm as you stand.

“Yo bookworm, ya’ in there?”  Scout calls.

You peak open the door and Scout taps his toes impatiently.

“What is it?”

“The doc wants a word with you, man.”

“Did he say why?”

“Nah, just that I should tell you to meet him in his office.  But hey, after that, can you come play baseball with us?  Pyro’s gonna be umpire and Demo’s pitching.  He actually got a real good arm, but don’t tell him I said that.  I think Soldier’s game too.  We could always use another guy though.”

“Maybe later.”

“Alright!”  Scout whoops with excitement, taking your answer as confirmation,  “See ya then.”

He sprints down the hall, his dog tags jingling around his neck.  You shut your door.  You set the book on the side table and put on your shoes before stepping out into the corridor.  You take your time as you stroll to the medical wing.  When you arrive, Medic jumps up to greet you.  He puts a gloved hand on your back and guides you to a table that’s been prepped with a game of chess.

“I see you are feeling better today,”  He says warmly.  He pulls out a chair, “Sit, sit.   Do you play? ”

“A bit,”  You reply, reluctantly accepting the chair.  Medic scoots the chair underneath you like a proper gentleman.  He scampers to take the chair opposite you.  

“Where’s Heavy?”  You question as Medic seats himself.  You cast a quick glance around the room, as if he’s simply hiding behind a cabinet.

“Heavy?  He’s off cleaning his weapon or whatever he’s named it,”  Medic responds, genuinely not having memorized the name Sasha for lack of of interest.  “I go first.”

Medic rubs his chin thoughtfully before relocating one of his white pawns closer to your side of the board.  You examine the pieces carefully before shifting a pawn of your own two spaces away.  Medic waits several turns into the game to speak.

“Are you aware of how I über your teammates?”

He studies you carefully, trying to gage your reaction.  

“With the Medigun?”

“Vell yes, but specially with the aid of a device I have implanted inside of their chest.  It builds up a charge that makes them invincible!  As you have seen, it is very effect.  Hardly any risks.  Nothing to worry about.”

You pause, considering his words.

“You want to perform the surgery on me?”

“Yes!”  He has trouble containing his excitement, “It is quite necessary.  Everyone on the team has undergone the procedure.  There have been no complaints, I can assure you.”

“Is it mandatory?”  You inquire.

He give an awkward laugh.

“No, not exactly,  but you will be at a severe disadvantage on the battlefield without it.”

“I’m sorry, I am not interested.  Your move.”  You answer.  It cannot be helped.  It would put him dangerously close to discovering your sex.  At this point, you considering letting him know your secret.  You say nothing and focus on the chess pieces.

He looks down at the playing board as if he had forgotten it was there.  He stammers, his mind racing for a counter argument.  He considers you for a long moment, before shifting one of his pieces.

“I vill not force you, but I intend to change your mind,”  He admits.   The game continues for some time.  At first the two of you appear to be evenly matched.  But once the first piece is captured, Medic proves he is capable of staying one step ahead of you.  The entire time, he refuses to control his smug smirks.  He checkmates your king, winning the game.

“That wasn’t so bad for a beginner,”  He teases,  “Perhaps another round?”

You set the pieces back their default position and wait for him to make the first move.  You move slower the second time around.  You give each move more mental thought than necessary.  You capture more pieces than before, but Medic defeats you without difficulty.

“Checkmate,” He grins.

You take the king from the board, as if you intend to protect it.

“You’re very good,”  You say, trying to defend your honor.

“Lots of practice,”  He waves a hand dismissively.  “Should we play again?”

“No, I have somewhere I need to be,”  You excuse yourself, setting the black king on the table before heading towards the door.

“Come back again anytime you want to be defeated.”  Medic calls after you.  You leave the medical wing and make your way out the battlements door.  The baseball field is located inside of the running track.  The lines had been drawn on with spray paint.  There is a lack of plant life such as grass on the field, but there are several desert shrub life sprouting from the earth.  You approach the field as Demoman prepares the pitch.  You stop to watch a short distance from Pyro.  Scout is standing at the plate, a picture of concentration as he straightens his hat and tilts his head downwards in hungry focus.  His grip tightens on the bat.  

Demoman winds up his arm and hurls the ball at Scout’s skull.  Scout’s wooden bat makes contact with a loud whump, lobbing the ball to the other side of field.  He watches Demoman and Soldier chase after it.

“Man, I’m good,”  He says, more to himself than Pyro.  The ball hits the running track and bounces, reminding Scout of his objective.  He takes off awkwardly as he throws the bat to the ground.  Soldier reaches the baseball first, tossing it to Demoman, who is closer to second base.  Scout touched down on second before Demoman can reach him.  Demoman throws the ball back to Soldier as a last attempt to claim victory.  Scout continues to third and brings himself back to home.

“Oh yeah!  I am unstoppable!”  Scout cheers, demonstrating a victory dance.  

“Dammit!”  Soldier growls, slamming the ball on the ground.

“Y/N!”  Demoman hollers a distraction, dashing at you with a sudden burst of speed.  When he reaches you, he claps your shoulder with friendly affection, “Come play with us, lad.  You can be on Scout’s team.”

“You’re up to bat,”  Scout adds,  “Good luck following that.”

You pick the bat off the ground and step up the plate.  Scout stands a short distance away and begins offering you advice.

“Try to focus.  Picture yourself hitting the ball.  Just envision how awesome you are going to be when you come back to home,”

“Ready?”  Demoman questions, now in position.

You give a nod.  Demoman winds up his arm and hurls the ball.  Your bat remains still as the ball makes contact with Pyro’s glove.

“Mike mone,”  Pyro mumbles, throwing the ball back to Demoman.  Demoman prepares the second pitch.  You hit the incoming ball with the bat and make a dash for the first base.

“Go to second!  Go to second!”  Scout calls.

You make it past first and reach second before Soldier can tag you.

“Wooh!”

“Scout you’re up.”  Demoman says.

“Sure thing,”  Scout picks up the bat.

The game lasts for about half an hour.  Demoman and Soldier get their chance to bat.  When Soldier makes it to second base, Scout tags him.

“Out!”  Scout calls.

“No I’m not!”  Soldier defends.

“Whoa, easy.”  Demoman tries to calm the situation.

“I totally tagged him before he reached the base!”  Scout accuses.

“You did not!”  Soldier points an accusing finger.

“I think Soldier’s right,”  Demoman soothes.

“He is not!”  Scout argues, his face growing red, “Y/N, tell him he’s totally out,”

“Sorry, I didn’t see,”  You say.

“Pyro!  Come here and tell them they’re wrong!”  Scout yells over to the home plate, but Pyro drops their catching glove and wanders towards the chain length fence like some in a trance.

“...Pyro?”

Pyro grabs the fence and stares longingly at smoke rising out from behind one of the canyon peaks.“What’s over there?”  You question.

“Sniper’s van, no doubt.  He’s a boot’ of a loner.  Won’t bother us none,”  Demoman explains.

Pyro begins a journey to the fence gate.

“Stay away from him, laddie!”  Demoman warns, but Pyro pays him no mind and continues forward.

“What’s the problem with that?” you question.

“He might not be one of ours.”

“Do you think Pyro could be in danger?”  

You suddenly aware of the weight of your gun behind your back.

“Well, I suppose not.  It’s ceasefire.  And you’ve seen what Pyro is capable of in battle.”

“Who cares, let’s get back to the game,”  Scout whines.

“I’m going with them,”  You say.

“He’ll be in good hands then,”  Demoman adds.

You jog after Pyro.  As you leave, you catch Scout say, “Soldier, you’re the new umpire.”

Soldier let’s out a cheer of joy.  Pyro has made considerable distance in a short period of time.  You run to catch up.  You tag along Pyro’s side as he wanders towards the source of the smoke. You round the corner to be greeted by the sight of the Blu Sniper.  He’s sitting on a lawn chair, cleaning a used hunting knife.  His hat lays idle at his side.  A skinned rabbit hangs over his campfire.  He looks up as Pyro approaches the flames.  He clears his throat before speaking.

“Can I help you?”

“Pyro was just investigating the smoke,” you explain.

The Blu Sniper eyes Pyro as they lean in towards the flame with childish curiosity.  He adjusts his attention of the knife, turning it over in his hands.  

“See that rabbit over the fire? It wandered a little too close and I shot it.” 

Sniper licks his lips.

“It’s ceasefire.” you add.

“I’m aware.  It’s the only reason you two are still alive.”

“Why did you set up so close to our base?”

“My own base is right next yours, where the bloody ‘ell do you expect me to set up?”

“Sorry… it just seems closer to our base than yours.”

“Well, it’s not,” argues Sniper, despite the fact he is incorrect and averts his eyes when he tries to defend himself.  The flames crackle.  Pyro retrieves collected a twig from the ground and begins provoking the flame.  Sniper inspects the blade closely.  It has clearly been put to use of the years, with scratches and nicks in the metal, but it’s been cared for and sharpened on a regular schedule.  The way he caressed the blade softly with the clothes demonstrates a sentimental attachment.  He sets the knife down gently on the armrest of the lawn chair and leans in to turn the rabbit over.  

Pyro has escalated from twigs to beer bottles.  He’s stolen Sniper’s beer and entertains himself by slowly leaking the contents into the flame.

“Stop that,”  Sniper scolds.

Pyro looks up.

“If you want to burn things, go build your own fire.  You’re going to ruin the taste of my meat.  There’s some wood behind the camper.  Use it.”

Pyro stands on their feet and follows Sniper’s instructions, disappearing from view.

“Bloody child,”  Sniper utters calmly.

Pyro returns with an arm full of firewood.  They drop it beside the campfire.

“That’s too close.  Build it farther away.”

Pyro gives a frustrated muffled sigh and begins picking up the wood.  They move several feet away.

“Good.  That’s good.  I’ll give you some trash to burn soon, if you like.”

“Mmm,”  Pyro responds, retrieving some matches from their back pocket.  Sniper looks at you.

“Did you wants a seat or something?”

“I thought we weren’t allowed to communicate with each other.”

“It’s a little late for that.  There’s no cameras out here, so you don’t have to worry.  I won’t tell the Administrator if you don’t.”

There’s something more laid back about the Blu Sniper compared to the Red that you can’t quite put your finger on.  He seems less tense, at least.  You come closer, retrieving a lawn chair from the side of his camper and positioning it a short distance from Sniper.  He turns the rabbit over more.

“What does rabbit taste like?”

“Chicken… it’s lean, so you have to be careful not to burn it.”

“Do you and the Blu version of me talk ever like this?”

“Nah, I don’t see him much.  Tends to keep to himself.  Seems a bit off, ‘onestly.”

Sniper looks at your expression.

“Don’t take it personal.  You know the Blus and Reds are different people, right?”

“I don’t.  I never held a conversion with one that didn’t end with one of us dead.”

“Yeah, well… that’s business for you.  But there’s tiny aspects of a personalities, you wouldn’t know it until you talked to them.”

“What are the differences?”

“Well, Red Scout’s in love with Miss Pauling… Blu Scout’s not as romantic, wants to shag anything that moves.  Red Engie is kind, but mighty violent if you cross him.  Blu Engie shelters our Pyro.  Blu Medic is kinda strict, sticks closer to the rules.  Red Medic seems to making things up as he goes.  I could go on.”

“How do you know?”

Sniper suddenly becomes nervous.  He licks his lips and shuffles his feet.

“Observation mostly…”

You get the distinct sense he is lying.  Sniper leans back in his chair.  He closes his eyes.

“There’s a storm coming.”

You look upwards.  There sky is painfully bright blue and there isn’t a cloud in sight.

“Wait, like a rainstorm?”

Sniper opens his eyes, glancing at you.  

“Yeah.”

“A literal storm then?”

“What’d you think I meant?”

“Well, there’s a cliche in movies and books where they say a storm is coming to symbolize upcoming conflict…”

Sniper scratches his chin.  “Nope, I meant a literal rainstorm.”

“But this is the desert.”

“Still rains in the desert, mate.”

You inhale deeply.  You’re accustomed to being able to smell rain before you see it, but can only detect the scent of the campfire.

“How do you know?”

Sniper stumbles for his words, finding difficulty explaining it.

“It’s just... a feeling in your bones.  And in the air.”

“I can’t smell it.”

“You won’t be able to just yet.  But it’ll be here soon.  Just you wait.”


	7. Chapter 7

You open your eyes softly and find yourself blinded by light. Black silhouettes of people loom over you.

“No way.” A distorted voice says in the distance. You blink softly. A blurry hand grows larger as it approaches your face. It moves back and forth and you follow it with your eyes. You can barely make out the details that they are wearing plastic gloves.

“We’ve got a live one!”

You blink dumbly. You try to move your mouth to speak, but find that your jaw is too heavy to move. It takes all your strength to keep your eyes from rolling back in your skull. Another silhouette appears. It holds up syringe and taps it. The syringe disappears from sight. A sharp string hits the crook your right arm.

You awake with a start as thunder crashes down.  Rain patters against your window. You listen to the storm beat against the outside of the base as you catch your breath. Lightning cuts through the darkness and illuminates your plainly furnished room. You push yourself up onto your elbows and turn on the light.

The crook of your arm echos ghosting pain, but the skin remains unblemished. You run your fingers over the area. There’s no trace of the insertion. The pain fades away. You investigate the clock on your bedside table. It is nearly 2 am. You lay your head against the pillow, but your heart is racing to quickly for you to sleep.

You decide to wash away your cold sweat. You grab a towel and head for the showers. The halls cast eerie shadows in the dead of night. Every creak makes your heart jump. You pick up the pace to the showering area. When you arrive, you are surprised to hear the shower already running. You make your way through the steamy fog to find Heavy standing beneath the hot stream of water. He holds still and you wonder if he’s fallen asleep, but he turns when he feels your eyes on him.

Your eyes do not want to obey your orders to look away, so you are forced to turn your head to cut off your view. The image of Heavy’s nude body remains fresh, even after you look away. Pudge acts as a protective shield over his muscular form. His torso fuzz would have been lighter in color if it hadn’t been wet, but now it is a black slicked down mess. It leads from his chest, down his belly, to his nethers. You spotted a tattoo on his right bicep, but looked away too quickly to catch the details.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” you apologize.

“Bad dream too?”

“Yeah, actually.”

Heavy nods. “Happens to most.”

You do not know what he means by most. You do not ask.

“You are wanting to take shower?” asks Heavy.

“I’m kinda self conscious about bathing in front of people.”

You turn to leave, but you hear the shower turns off. Heavy grabs his towel and wraps it around his waist.

“You don’t have to leave, I can wait,” you sputter. 

“Is fine. I am done. Have good night.”

Heavy leaves the room, granting you the privacy you need to bathe in peace.

“Goodnight,” You call after him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

The rest of the night quickly fades away into morning. The war is postponed due to the weather and you kill time by pumping weights in the gym. After working up a sweat, you debate taking another shower. You decide that it is too risky now that the other mercs are awake. Instead, you change your clothes for the second time that day and make you way to the kitchen for an early breakfast. By now, the base is considerably better lit. Several other mercs crowd around the table sleepily chewing eggs and toast. 

You feel Engineer’s eyes on you from across the table. When you look up at him, he gives you a friendly smile. After breakfast, you plan to lay down and read one of the novels you borrowed from the base library. However, once you’ve finished your meal, Engineer pulls you aside to visit his garage.

“Mann Co dropped this baby in last night. I’ve been waitin’ for you to wake up so I could tell ya.”

“Oh sorry, I wish I’d known. I’ve actually been awake all night.”

“Funny. Can’t sleep?”

“Not with this thunder.”

“Know the feelin’. I could get you some earplugs if you’d like.”

“That would be nice.” You respond half heartedly. 

A wooden crate sits beside the table. The chairs have been pushed aside to make room for the crate. The Mann Co. label is printed onto the side of the box. The mailing address is stapled to the top. The parachute that it came with has long since been disposed of.

“Why did they send this? I didn’t order any weapons.”

“You subscribed to the catalogue?” Engineer inquires.

“Yeah.”

“ Well there ya go. It’s your subscription bonus.”

“Subscription bonus?”

“They’ll send you crates with weapons or hats from time to time as a sign up perk. Unfortunately, you gotta purchase a special key from ‘em to get it open.”

“This sounds like trick to make more money.”

Engineer laughs. “It is.”

“Can’t just use a bolt cutter?”

“Nope. The crate ’ll self destruct if u try.”

“You're joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Engineer eyes bore into you.

“Okay, fair point. But if I get blown up, I’ll just respawn. So why not try?”

“You’re choice.” Engineer shrugs.

You reach for crowbar and Engineer blocks your hand.

“’m gonna have’ta insist you move your little project elsewhere.” It’s not a request. 

“Where?”

“I don’t care. As long as it ain’t in here.”

Engineer makes no attempt to help you lift the crate, but offers you a spare teleporter to transport it up the stairs. 

“Ya know, if you’re still determined to open that thing, it’d do you good to hit up Travish. He’ll defuse the thing for a beer or two if he’s in a right mood.”

“Thanks,”

“Eh, don’t mention it.” Engineer waves his hand dismissively. He reassembles the spare teleporter into a toolbox with a single swoop and carries it under arm down the stairs. You leave the crate where it sits to search for Demoman.

The lights flicker as you make your way through the base. The hallways are cluttered with buckets that have been set out to collect from the leaky roof. The dripping echos down the halls. You can’t decide if it’s pleasant or annoying. You catch sight of bouncing white light coming from the rec room and enter find Demoman and Soldier huddled together on the couch in front of a television. All three of their eyes glued to the screen. Suspenseful violin music causes your heart to skip as it strikes hard and fast.

“Don’t go in there ya thick lass. Ya bloody well know that’s not yer boyfriend!”

All other lights have been dimmed to aid the atmosphere. The girl on the black and white screen looks around the forest, calling out to her boyfriend. Something rustles in the bushes beside her. She says his name, softer this time, and full of doubt. The rustling stops and the volume mutes. Demoman and Soldier are at the edge of their seats, unaware of your presence.

“What are you watching?” You ask, making your presence startlingly known. Demoman and Soldier both jump. 

“Give sum warnin’ next time lad!”

“Sorry,” you say. You are not.

The camera is zoomed in on the horrified expression on the screaming woman. She faints.

“How can you watch this?” You ask 

“On the television,”

“I mean it’s terrible.”

“There’s nothing else ta do,” Demoman mutters softly.

“The whole teams a bunch of pansies! We should be out there killing BLU scum, not hiding in here from a little shower! I’ve fought wars in hurricanes before. Was it easy, of course not! But we did our part and didn’t let a little dizzle stop us from punching those red menaces in the kidneys!”

“Don’t wanna get wet.” argues Demoman.

“Man up! A little hurricane never killed anybody.”

Demoman whines softly.

“So Demo… I need a favor.”

“Whatcha have in mind?”

“Bomb defusing.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Scrumpy.”

Demoman makes a pfft sound. “That’s all?”

“Errr, is that not enough?”

“Have ya no shame? Tryin ta get me wrecked like some kinda bloody backalley jaikey so I’ll do ya favors. What’s this world comin’ ta if a man’s gotta risk life and limb just ta wet his lips. Neigh, it’s not enough.” Demoman burps.

“Speak english!” Soldier demands.

“You won’t die. You’ll just respawn.” You answer.

“If tha job’s so easy, why don’t you do it yerself?” Demoman answers with a large shiteating grin.

You frown.

“If you won’t accept Scrumpy, what can I give you in return?”

“Now I never said I won’t accept the Scrumpy. Just that it’s gonna take more than that fer me to get my butt off this sofa.”

“He should pay you in high fives!” Soldier adds.

“Aye, that’s a good idea mate. I’ll be taking high fives as well, laddie.”

Soldier beams at the compliment. After you don’t respond, Demoman clicks his tongue impatiently, “Well, I’m waiting.”

“I’m still thinking.”

“If yer having trouble thinking something up, I have an idea. How about a favor fer a favor? I have some laundry that needs doing.”

“How much laundry?”

“Eh… not much. Just a few pieces of clothing.”

“As long as it’s not underwear or socks.”

Demoman scoffs, “That’s what needs done.”

“No way.”

“No deal then. Come back when you’re serious.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Take it or leave it.”

[[Click Here to Agree]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8614321/chapters/19751149)

[[Click Here to Disagree]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8614321/chapters/19751251)


End file.
